her eyes
by BadWolfGirl01
Summary: The Year That Never Was, the 18 months prior, and the events that lead to Lucy Saxon killing the Master. The second half has every warning in the book: rape/non-con, graphic depictions of violence, sexual and physical abuse, domestic violence, darkness. M FOR A REASON! Read at your own risk.


**WARNING: IF YOU HAVE ANY TRIGGERS INVOLVING ABUSE, ESPECIALLY SEXUAL AND PHYSICAL, AND ANY TRIGGERS REVOLVING AROUND DOMESTIC VIOLENCE, THIS FIC IS NOT FOR YOU! READ THE FIRST HALF IF YOU WANT BUT AFTER THE - WE SEE THE EVENTS LEADING TO LUCY SHOOTING THE MASTER AND IT IS VERY DARK AND VIOLENT AND GRAPHIC YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!**

Her eyes were warm with trust and bright with hope, a rich brown sparkle, the centerpiece of her stunningly beautiful face. Her hair tumbled down like sunlight spun into silk, lightly curled, begging his hands to run through it. He so rarely gave into the un-Time Lord-like impulse of lust, but Harold Saxon would look so much better with a woman on his arm, and _what_ a woman.

It was easy to acquire a large amount of money, and he just as easily charmed her, with a disarming grin and an air of mystery and a gentleness with her father, spending liberal sums of cash to ease the man as he died. Being a strong arm to support her, a shoulder for her to weep on, was taxing to the Master, but it was rewarded when she proclaimed herself to be in love with him.

He took her into the TARDIS and showed her the end of the universe; with childlike wonder she observed the magnificent ship's interior, and with a grave solemnity she took in the result of the inexorable advance of Time. Throughout it all, she never tried to run. When she once again professed her devotion to him, only greater now that she'd seen the end of it all, he proposed—such a quaint human custom, but one that his Lucy took such pleasure in. And he did so want her to be happy, he realized, discovering that he'd actually developed a perverted sort of affection for the vapid human female.

On the wedding night, he was finally able to touch her, taste her, take her the way he'd wanted to since his eyes first met hers—were he honest with himself, which he always strove to be, he would admit that it was the greatest reason he'd wooed her in the first place. And, well, the nights were _so_ boring, waiting for the Doctor to show up.

He was pleased when she informed the woman that she'd made her choice, and he rewarded her that evening. The sound of her moaning his name, calling him Master, in ecstasy, fueled his own pleasure, driving him over the brink. He rewarded her again for using his name, and soon she only called him Harry in public, so desirous of him was she.

He'd been amazed when she agreed to allow him to try and force a telepathic bond. It was only halfway successful, but even the slight bond was a feeling he'd never thought he'd experienced. And it gave him a way to manipulate her mind with ease, if need be. He was nothing if not practical.

After the success of the bonding, Lucy often ended up in the TARDIS, holding as much of a conversation as a non-telepathic human being can have with a telepathic, sentient timeship. The TARDIS had taken a liking to the Master's young wife, surprising him. It didn't surprise him later, however. The ship must've known that Lucy was the only hope of making him more human.

Once the Doctor arrived in London, eighteen months after he had, any possibilities of making him more human were gone, right out the window. That night, the night he took over the Valiant and activated the paradox machine, he hit Lucy for the first time.

Later that same evening, when he went to their bedroom, he saw her curled on the bed, sobbing into the pillow. It was the first time he'd seen her cry.

Lucy was a strong woman, but not long into the first month of the Master's rule, her strength broke. He found her attempting to kill herself with his laser screwdriver; unfortunately for her (fortunately for him), the controls were biometric and she had no chance of succeeding. It was just as well. He didn't want her to die. She was a pretty thing.

"Now, now, Lucy, what's this?" the Master asked, striding over to her.

"You-you _monster_!" she cried, beating at his chest with her fists.

"Just two months ago, you promised to stay with me, love. _'Til death do us part_ , isn't that how it goes? Such a quaint human promise, one so many of you break." He rolled his eyes expressively. She trembled in his arms, and he surreptitiously brushed his fingers over her temples, bringing their faint, almost negligible bond stirring to life—what little life it had. Through it, he forced trust, love, and lust, needing to keep the physical attraction strong. After all, the nights were _so_ boring.

Her eyes were empty, dead. What once had been a vibrant sparkle was now flat. She looked in the mirror and tried to care.

There was a black ring around her left eye and a bright red handprint on her right cheek. A thin white line encircling her neck was the only sign of the knife he'd trailed along her throat mere hours previous; the infirmary tucked inside the bigger-on-the-inside box worked wonders on life-threatening injuries. Her whole body ached, cuts and bruises covering the entirety of it.

Burns from the laser screwdriver marred her breasts, her stomach, and her inner thighs, and deep purple-black handprints stood out in clear relief on her pale skin, showing where he'd pried her thighs apart, forcibly taking her.

She no longer derived pleasure from their sex.

He no longer cared.

She'd stopped screaming and begging when she realized how much it excited him. He never stopped anyway.

She cried herself to sleep, at first, but eventually she was numb, cried out. That was when the dreams began.

A tall, beautiful brown-haired woman wearing a dress the same color as that impossible box came to her, gathering Lucy in her arms, rocking her back and forth and drying her tears. She felt like a mother.

"Who are you?" Lucy had asked, the first night the dream had come.

"You can call me Idris, child."

"I'm not a child, not anymore."

"Oh, Lucy Saxon, I know. You are an incredibly strong, brave woman."

"Not strong," dream-Lucy whispered, looking at her lap, tears welling up in her eyes. "Couldn't even kill myself properly. Couldn't even tell him no."

"Lucy," Idris murmured, hugging her tightly, "you are going to survive the Diseased One, and that's more than most people can say. Survive, darling Lucy Saxon."

When she woke up, Lucy felt better than she had in months.

The dreams came every night, now. Often, Idris merely sang to her, a beautiful, haunting melody that Lucy could never remember when she awakened. Other times, the woman told her about the Doctor's plan to save them all.

"You must be ready when the countdown reaches zero, Lucy."

"And he'll be gone?" Lucy asked, her voice trembling.

"Yes."

Somehow, Lucy never doubted her.

She almost screamed, getting out of bed. He'd taken her forcefully again, in the night, many times. Used his laser screwdriver on a low setting in her ass and on her clit, burning her. The smell of roasted flesh had accompanied her to sleep. He'd left when his pleasure was taken, leaving her to the pain and the dark emptiness of the room.

She'd hardly been able to sleep and there was blood on her—she could feel it—but the pain was great, and it magnified exponentially when she tried to move, so Lucy Saxon lay in a too-big bed all alone, whimpering, wishing she'd never been so naïve, to the point that she'd trusted a man who called himself the Master.

By the end of the countdown, she is a patchwork quilt of bruises, burns, cuts, marks, even a brand. Traced on her navel and on her back, between her shoulder blades, painstakingly etched out with a razor blade, was an elegant-looking glyph of circles and swirling lines. The Master said it meant "possession". She knew she'd bear it for the rest of her life. There would be no escaping the Master.

There are scars around her wrists and ankles from shackles and ropes and ties and wire; whatever he had on hand. There are gouges and burn scars spiraling up her right arm, from where the Master wrapped barbed wire around her and electrocuted it. The electricity burned her, nearly killed her. He laughed when she screamed and did it to one leg (and both feet), as well.

She couldn't walk for three weeks.

Her back is crisscrossed by thick, ropy scars—lashes (where he got a bullwhip, she doesn't know, but it was one of his favorite toys) and less delicate knifework. Her nose will never be the same again, having been shattered during a gang-rape session, when the Master gave her over to a circle of his thugs. She nearly died when a sliver of bone pierced her brain, but the Master didn't want that. Wouldn't allow his pretty little playtoy to die.

She realizes that killing Jack Harkness and taunting the Doctor have gotten very boring very quickly, and she's the only other distraction.

So it's a relief, a huge relief, when the day comes. She's dressed nicely, as he wants, staring into the mirror, trying to cover the bruising and handprints on her face with makeup, to put on a show for the world.

The burns can't be hidden—he used the laser screwdriver on her forehead, marking out the same possession glyph as is on her back and stomach, and he neglected to heal the wounds. They scream in white-hot agony every time her hair brushes against them.

She knows the Doctor knows what the glyph means when he sees her, because his eyes fill with sorrow and sympathy. And then Martha Jones—pretty, unscarred, so, so lucky—explains the plan, Lucy is ready, and she thinks along with everyone else.

Then there's a gun on the floor and everything moves in slow motion, and she shoots.

She likes the prison. She huddles in the corner of her cell. Speaks to no one. Eats when she wants.

They don't make her dress up and hide the scars. They give her treatment and even offer therapy for the abuse. She refuses it.

The men don't touch her.

Maybe it's because of the brands…

But she knows it's her eyes that keep them all away.


End file.
